


If Things Were Different

by SixtySevenChevy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hell, Season/Series 02, kingofhell!sam, the major character death doesn't last long trust me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixtySevenChevy/pseuds/SixtySevenChevy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Cold Oak, South Dakota, Sam Winchester dies, and his brother sells his soul. </p><p>Six months later, Sam dies again, leaving Dean with no way of getting him back.</p><p>After another six months, Dean is dragged to Hell.</p><p>And Hell is under new management.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just really like boykingofhell!ssam, okay? So I changed the canon a bit to include it.

It’s dark and the wind is howling like a caged animal, clawing at his skin and tossing grit and sand into Dean’s eyes. He doesn’t notice or care. How can he, when the only thing he has left to live for is bleeding out in his arms?

“Sammy?” Dean shouts, but Sam doesn’t respond. Bobby’s run off after the bastard that did this, and Dean’s all alone with his dying brother. “Hey, I’m gonna fix you up, okay? Because that’s my job. Take care of my pain-in-the-ass little brother. Sam? Sammy!”

Sam doesn’t respond, and Dean knows.

“No!” he cries, and clutches the limp body closer. 

XXXXX

The road is hard beneath his feet, and he can feel dust clinging to his slightly damp face. He finishes scraping dirt over the cold metal box and waits, staring angrily at the four roads that stretch from where he’s standing. The wind howls and the rickety windmill behind him turns lazily, rusty metal squeaking and protesting. 

Dean blinks and there’s a woman standing in front of him. She’s gorgeous and smirking at him in a way that he usually wouldn’t complain about, and when she speaks her voice is melodious. “Dean Winchester. Wasn’t expecting you.”

“Bring him back,” Dean spits out. 

The demon laughs, tossing her dark curls behind her head. “It’s not that easy, sweetie. Why should we give up a _Winchester?_ ”

“Because you can have the other one,” Dean growls. “My soul, and I get Sam back. You come for me in ten years and I go quietly, and he gets to live his life.”

“Nice thought, but no deal,” the demon purrs. Dean tightens his hand on the knife in his pocket, struggling to refrain from stabbing this thing right in its heart. She grins at him, as if sensing his fury. “Like I said, we have _the_ Sam Winchester downstairs right now. Why should we give that up?”

“Five years,” Dean says in desperation.

The demon’s eyes widen for a split second, as if she’s impressed. She quickly schools her expression into one of cool boredom. “Sorry, but still no.”

“Just give me a year,” Dean pleads, shaking his head. he can feel more tears welling, and if he doesn’t do something soon he’s going to cry in front of a crossroads demon. “One year, and you can have my soul.”

The demon bites her bottom lip, hands folded in front of her stomach like a proper businesswoman. She shakes out her curls and settles her gaze on Dean, intent as a prowling lioness. She sighs heavily, giving in. “Fine,” she says. “One year, and then you’re dead. And if you try to get out of the deal at all, you’re both dead. Understood?”

Dean nods rapidly, and the demon takes a step forward. She bats her eyes at him, and he grimaces. This won’t be particularly pleasant.

The kiss is a quick one, made up of cool business on the demon’s end and Dean trying to pretend he’s doing anything but this. When it’s over, the demon steps out of his personal space as if she’s just as disgusted as he is. She coughs delicately, and smirks at him. The wind gusts, and she’s gone.

XXXXX

Sam is confused, but Dean manages to brush off his questions, telling him that Bobby fixed him up. Bobby knows, of course, but that’s a bridge Dean can burn later. For now, all that matters is that he’s got his brother back, and he’s got a whole year to live in. so long as Sam never finds out, everything will be fine.

But because the universe must hate Dean with every fiber of its being, Sam finds out almost immediately. They’re in the car, driving down a highway in Minnesota two days later, when Sam just blurts it out. “You sold your soul for me, didn’t you?”

Dean doesn’t answer. 

This is enough for Sam.

“Dean!” Sam shouts, and Dean shakes his head. “Dean, you didn’t!”

“I had to, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “You were dead. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not that!” Sam exclaims. His voice is getting deeper like it always does when he’s yelling. Dean shakes his head again, trying to get Sam off the topic. If he can change the subject, he can prolong the argument until he’s drunk enough to handle it without breaking.

“I had to,” Dean repeats.

“How long do you have?” Sam asks, his voice quiet and soft with worry, whole body shaking slightly. Dean exhales, feeling his throat close up. He knows the tears care coming, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy with it. 

“A year.”

Sam practically explodes, in both fury and worry, and he doesn’t relax until Dean starts crying. And then they’re both crying, and Dean has to pull over to the side of the road or he’ll wreck the car, and they can’t make complete sentences because Sam was dead, and Dean’s next, and what are they both going to do now?

Neither of them knows.

XXXXX

Dean doesn’t try to get out of the deal. Sam does, and Dean knows it, but he never lets on that he knows. If he were to make it obvious that he realizes what Sam’s doing, the demons would kill them both. The deal said that Dean couldn’t weasel his way out of it; the crossroads demon never said anything about Sam. 

They don’t talk about it, either. Dean knows Sam wants to, but every time the conversation starts, Dean shuts it down as quickly as he can. If he were to start talking about the deal, and their future, he might curl up in a ball and quit living. Why go on, after all, when you’ve only got a year to do it in?

It’s six months after he made the deal that things go horrifically wrong. They’re taking out a ghost in a house in Maryland, just a routine salt-and-burn job, one that doesn’t even require more than a weekend stay at the local cheap motel. It’s the second night of the hunt, and they’ve already broken into the house, lit up the body, and are on their way back to the car when it happens.

The body was “buried” in the upstairs bedroom, hidden beneath the floorboards, right under the only window in the room. A curtain goes up in flames in an instant, and then the antique wallpaper is catching too, and then the whole room is a spiraling wall of pure light and heat, encroaching from all sides, singing the hair on the boys’ arms and filling their lungs with smoke.

Dean grabs Sam’s arm, pulling him to the door. If they can get out of the room before the rest of the house catches, they can be out of town by the time the fire department responds. But the walls were thin, and flames are licking the hallway. Dean curses and takes a deep breath. If they run, they can make it.

“Come on! We can make it if we run for it!” he shouts over the roar of the flames. Sam nods, and then he’s off, sprinting down the hallway in a way that makes Dean wonder if he was on the track team at Stanford. When he reaches the end of the hallway, he turns back, waving a hand for Dean to follow.

Dean coughs into his sleeve and runs. He can feel the sweltering heat of the fire, the smoke in his lungs, the burn of it in his eyes. Everything is red and furious, bright and hellishly lit. The flames are growing, reaching closer to him, gently licking his back and legs. He squeezes his eyes shut, praying feverishly even though he doesn’t believe, hoping for a miracle. “Hurry!” Sam screams, and Dean knows he can’t make it.

He slips on the melted remains of something made of wax, and falls to the burning floor. He catches himself on his elbows, stomach hitting the ground, the air knocked from his lungs. Everything swims before his eyes, and he can barely make out Sam coming toward him through the thick smoke.

“Dean!” Sam shouts, bending down to help him up.

Right as the wall caves in.

XXXXX

Dean wakes up in a hospital, with a tube in his nose, alone. He immediately rips the tube things away from his face and sits up, coughing. His whole body aches. Both his left arm and his left leg are covered in plaster, and his other arm is in a sling. His chest aches and his lungs burn when he tried to breathe.  
“Hello?” he calls. “Sam?”

The door opens and a short nurse bustles in, playing with the rubber gloves on his hands. He flashes Dean a bright grin, picking up the chart from the foot of the bed and reading over it. Dean frowns at him, waiting to be told exactly what the hell is going on.

“Good morning,” the nurse says, overly cheery.

“Where am I?” Dean demands gruffly, voice breaking from smoke inhalation. “What happened?”

“You’re at Justice Memorial Hospital, in South Justice. You were in a house fire, and the wall collapsed on top of you. The firemen pulled you out and brought you here. I have to say, we didn’t think you’d make it,” the nurse explains. He pulls out a syringe from a pocket somewhere in his white coat and empties it into the IV bag connected to Dean’s arm.

“Where’s my brother?” Dean asks, feeling a sick twinge of worry in his chest.

The nurse looks down and purses his lips. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to get someone who would know,” he murmurs, and then he leaves. 

Dean wants to hit something, but he doesn’t get the chance. Whatever the nurse put into his drip must have been a sedative.

XXXXX

Dean wakes up again a while later. It’s dark outside, with cold moonlight filtering in through the blinds on the small window. There’s a tall woman in his room this time, perusing his chart with hawklike eyes, frowning deeply.

“Who are you?” he croaks.

“Your doctor,” she says without looking up. “I’m Maria, but you’re technically supposed to call me Dr. Green.”

Dean coughs, wincing as pain rockets through his ribcage. “What happened to me?”

“You were in a house fire, but I presume Darren already told you that. He’s the nurse that drugged you this morning. Anyway, you were pulled out by EMTs along with another man, and both of you were brought here. You have a broken femur, a shattered clavicle, and three broken ribs. Add in a concussion and serious smoke inhalation, I’m honestly amazed you’re awake right now.”

“Where’s my brother?” Dean asks, trying to keep his eyes open long enough to get an answer. His head feels fuzzy and everything aches. He’ll be lucky if he can stay awake long enough to check himself and Sam out of this hospital and call Bobby to take them back to Sioux Falls. 

“Was he the man with you?” Dr. Green—Maria?—asks softly. Dean nods, his hair rustling against the uniform white fabric of the hospital-issue pillowcase. Dr. Maria turns to face him, hey eyes immeasurably sad, biting her bottom lip.

Dean feels his face go numb. He stops breathing, and the monitor attached to his pulse skips a few beats before picking up again at an alarming rate. He thinks he might be about to start hyperventilating. “No. Not again.”

“He was pronounced dead on arrival by the EMTs, and they brought his body back here. When you’re able, we’ll need you to identify him,” she murmurs, and Dean wants to curl up in a small, dark hole and drown in his own pain.

His mind shuts off, refusing to accept it. Sam has always been the one thing that was set in stone in his life, the one constant that never changed, more so than his father or even the Impala. How can he live when Sam is gone? He didn’t make it more than a few hours last time. There’s no way he can survive.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Maria murmurs. “I’m going to need to sedate you now.”

Dean is knocked out again within minutes.

XXXXX

Bobby comes to pick him up the next morning, and identifies Sam’s body while he’s there. Dean is wheeled out of the hospital, still heavily sedated, and into the passenger seat of Bobby’s rusty old pickup. Bobby gives instructions to the morticians to salt and burn the bones, explaining it as some sort of religious practice.

The drive to South Dakota passes in silence, Dean still too exhausted from the many painkillers to do much more than hum occasionally. Bobby turns on the radio, and they listen to classic rock songs all the way home.

When they pull up to Singer Salvage, Bobby helps Dean inside and sits him down on the couch. Dean is asleep in seconds, exhausted from the trip and medication and the grief. Bobby goes into the kitchen and opens up the alcohol cabinet.

XXXXX

The first week Post-Sam goes by quietly, with few hiccups. Dean takes his meds and keeps still, and Bobby occupies his time doing research for other hunters and making food once in a while. Neither man mentions what they’ve lost.

XXXXX

The second week is much the same, but Dean talks more this time. He wonders out loud if the demons are still going to come and collect on his soul, now that they’ve got Sam back. He tries to walk a short distance on his own, and actually makes it from the couch to the kitchen, where he collapses into a chair and promptly falls asleep. He takes his medication and complains frequently that they’re making him useless.

XXXXX

Week three Post-Sam is the hardest. It finally hits Dean just how much he’s lost, exactly what’s gone. He breaks down more than once, silent sobs in the night, trying as hard as he can not to wake Bobby. He doesn’t say much, and completely stops talking for a few days. How can he survive, he wonders, now that everything he loves is gone? His mom died long ago, his dad has been gone for over a year, and now Sam. The Impala is still parked outside the hospital in South Justice. All that he has left is Bobby.

XXXXX

In the fourth week PS, Bobby gets another hunter to drive the Impala up to Singer Salvage. Dean sits in it for hours on end, in the passenger seat, trying to smell Sam on the leather. He can barely make out a hint of Sam’s girly shampoo, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost hear him, whispering in his ear. He knows it isn’t actually Sam, but it helps. 

XXXXX

Dean lives at Bobby’s house for a month after the accident before he finally gets up the energy to saw his casts off. He takes about three hours to get the one on his arm off, but after that it’s fairly simple to get the leg cast off. He hasn’t worn the sling in weeks, and stopped taking the medication last week. 

Hopefully, he’ll be allowed to go back out hunting soon. After all, he only has about five months to live now, maybe slightly less. He needs to do as much as he can, take down as many sons of bitches as possible before they send the hellhounds for him.

One morning at breakfast, about one month PS, he asks Bobby. “How long do you think it’ll be before I can get back to work?”

“Work?” Bobby scoffs.

“Saving people, hunting things,” Dean clarifies, waving his fork in the air. “The family business.”

Bobby sighs heavily and turns around to face him, leaning back on the counter. He points the greasy spatula at Dean with narrowed eyes. “I suppose you could go out now, so long as you promise you won’t get killed.”

Dean tries to smile, but he can’t quite make it. Bobby nods in understanding and goes back to his sausage, turning them over in the pan with a focus that is usually only seen in those who are trying desperately to avoid feeling.

“I’m going to look for a hunt,” Dean announces loudly, as if trying to chase the tension and grief away. “Got anything good?”

Bobby clears his throat. “There’s a triple haunting up in Des Moines, if you’re up to it,” he offers.

Dean packs his bag and is gone in three days.

XXXXX

And so he passes the months saving people and hunting things, taking as many sons of bitches out with him as possible, returning to Bobby’s house at the end of each hunt for food and company. The days pass in monotony—wake up, go to work, come back and wash the blood off, check out, and drive home to Bobby’s. He keeps things simple as he can, not wanting to get killed too early. Sam wouldn’t have wanted it that way, no matter how bad Dean might.

The jobs pass in a blur, one ghost to the next, ghoul to vampire to werewolf, with barely any pause for breath in between. He comes back to singer Salvage to eat, sleep for a night, and get another job, and then he’s gone again, off to Maine or Oregon, driving away in his long black car that feels too empty without someone singing off-key in the passenger seat.

When he has two months left, Dean stops hunting and spends time with Bobby. Bobby is the only family he has, and he knows that it’s mutual. He cooks breakfast sometimes, grills burgers in the evenings, does research and helps passing hunters bury bodies in the backyard. He catalogues books, indexes whole tomes of archaic Latin, keeps himself busy doing the kind of work that doesn’t require a knife. In a way, it’s nice to have a bed at night that’s probably never had a hooker in it, and food that isn’t usually weeks past the expiration date. But the gaping hole in his chest is still there, festering and pounding, never-ending.

Dean starts to get headaches when he has a week, horrible migraines that stick around for hours at a time and don’t go away until he drowns them in whiskey. Bobby says that it’s because he’s on the brink of death. The thought is somehow comforting.

When he has a day left, he starts to hallucinate. He sees horrible things everywhere. There’s a dead woman in the hallway, bleeding and broken and just lying there, weeping softly. She never moves or says anything, so he doesn’t mention her to Bobby. He knows that hallucinations are just part of the process. He’s almost gone now.

The clock strikes twelve, and Dean can hear growling. He and Bobby are on the couch, watching some infomercial about jewelry, eyes glued to the clock. He swallows hard and turns to Bobby.

“You were the only father I ever had,” Dean whispers, hoping Bobby can hear.

And the hound pounces.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way too much fun trying to cram as many canon demons into this as possible.

Dean wakes up in a stylish lobby, on a nice leather couch, head fuzzy and vision blurry. The room smells vaguely of lemon floor polish, and his boots make loud thumps against the newly shined hardwood when he sits up. Dean immediately runs his hands over his chest, searching for the shredded fabric and skin he knows should be there.

Nothing.

He stops feeling for wounds and looks around instead, trying to take stock of his surroundings. He’s in a waiting room like the one at the hospital he was in just six months ago, complete with garish modern art adorning the walls that only someone like Sam would find interesting. Dean’s heart lurches at the thought, and he rejects it in favor of giving in to the worry pooling in his gut.

There are two leather couches besides the one he’s sitting on, a shiny coffee table with several magazines strewn across the surface, and a desk. He’s not in any place he should be in. This is an upscale psychiatrist’s office, or the waiting room of a massage therapy center. This isn’t hell.

There’s the sound of clicking heels, and Dean turns toward it so fast he can feel his neck crack. He’s instantly on guard, feeling in his pockets for any sort of weapon. Sadly, his pockets are all empty, and his hidden knives, lockpicks, and holy water are all gone. He curses under his breath.

The footsteps were made by a pretty brunette in a black skirt and red blouse. She takes a seat behind the desk and gives him a smile, but he can tell the smile is forced. Dean blinks at her, trying to clear some of his confusion.

“If you wait right there, he’ll be ready for you in a few minutes,” she says, and picks up a phone. Dean blinks in confusion. He wonders briefly if his whole life was a fantasy, and this is his therapist’s office, and he’s here because he has wild delusions of monster-hunting. He slowly allows himself to relax into the couch, almost praying that it isn’t true. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Sam was a figment of his imagination.

He winces at the thought, more than he probably should now that it’s been an entire six months since his death. Before he can dwell on all of the pain that he’s been systematically drinking away, there’s a soft pop, and a startled shriek.

Dean glances over and sees a petit blonde woman in a dark blue blazer. She’s sitting on the couch to his left, knees tucked up to her heaving chest, eyes wide with panic. He holds out a hand to her, and she flinches back.

“Where am I?” she demands, voice high and shrill with terror. “Where’s Nick?”

The woman behind the desk doesn’t even glance up; she simply hits a button and goes back to her conversation, twirling the chord around a thin finger as if nothing’s wrong. Dean gapes at her nonchalance and gets up to try and comfort the frantic woman by himself.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” he murmurs, taking a seat beside her. She shrinks back from his presence, pressing herself deeper into the soft leather. A tear leaks from her large brown eye and meanders down her cheek. Even from his safe distance, Dean can tell she’s dangerously close to hyperventilation.

“Where am I?” she repeats, but this time her voice has taken on a desperate quality.

Dean shakes his head and doesn’t try to touch her. “I don’t know, but I won’t let anyone hurt you, okay?”

The woman nods slowly, lips trembling. She pulls in a shuddering breath and gulps. “My name is Sarah,” she whispers.

“Dean,” Dean says, and Sarah nods.

At that moment, a heavy wooden door opens, and a frightfully thin man in a dark suit comes out. He smiles softly at Sarah, and she whimpers. The man holds up both hands to show he isn’t armed.

“Sarah, my name is Malachi. I’m here to show you around and help you settle in, alright?” he asks, voice soft and comforting. Sarah hitches another panicked breath and shakes her head wildly. Malachi doesn’t look perturbed. “It’s alright. No one is going to hurt you here. Nick is safe back home, and you’re going to be fine here.”

 _“Where am I?”_ she half-shrieks. Dean studiously avoids looking into her tear-filled brown eyes, because if he sees the fear in them, he’ll start to feel his own. “Please, just tell me where I am.”

“Sweetheart,” Malachi murmurs sadly. “You’re in Hell.”

Sarah shakes her head again, protesting with her expression. Dean feels his stomach drop. So, he wasn’t hallucinating everything. He really did hunt monsters for a living, Sam is really dead, and he’s really in Hell. Beside him, Sarah is trembling violently, hugging the blazer closer around her shoulders. 

Malachi nods earnestly. “It’s okay, though. You sold your soul to cure Nick’s cancer, remember? You saved his life, Sarah. And our king is a gracious one, so you won’t be tortured for eternity. Those who arrive because of deals that benefit others are treated well.”

“Will Nick be okay?” Sarah asks, voice cracking. Malachi nods.

Dean doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation. His mind is reeling, calculating the possibilities and outcomes of his current situation. Either the truth is being told, or this is all a ruse to torment him. In his experience, good things don’t happen, so he remains on alert. Alert meaning as alert as he can get with his brain shrouded in wool.

“Come with me,” Malachi says, holding out a hand. Sarah stands on shaky legs and takes a step toward him. She doesn’t take his hand but she allows him to lead her through the heavy door he came from. Dean cranes his neck to get a look through. It’s a bare white hallway, nothing hellish about it.

The woman behind the desk—receptionist, he reasons—looks up and makes eye contact with him. She tells the person on the other end of her phone call goodbye and stands up, stretching out her long limbs before coming toward Dean. He doesn’t shrink back.

She stops in front of him and offers her hand. Dean takes it and shakes it skeptically. 

“I’m Ruby. I work for the King. Technically, I’m his secretary, his adviser, his receptionist, his chief of war, and his friend. I don’t want you to do anything to hurt him, understand?” she says, one eyebrow raised threateningly. Dean, rightly guessing that laughing would be the wrong thing to do, nods. Even though it’s preposterous that he would be able to harm the King of Hell in any way.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he asks, and Ruby’s answering grin has subtle undertones of malice and cruelty. It’s fascinating, in a way, how she can be utterly unassuming on the surface, while harboring a deep evil underneath. It’s like a snake is coiled beneath her skin, ready to lash out and sink its fangs into the nearest throat at any moment and retreat to watch the victim writhe. 

“Because he’s requested your presence, and I’m about to take you to him,” she purrs, and jerks her head in the direction of a long hallway that he’s fairly certain wasn’t there a minute ago. She stalks over to it, hips swaying in a way that has to be intentional, pausing at the mouth of the hall to turn and say, “Coming?”

Dean curses but scrambles to his feet all the same, boots making loud thumps against the wooden flooring. Ruby laughs as he struggles to catch up to her. When he finally finds her again, she’s at the end of the hallway, standing in front of an elevator door. The numbered button for floor -9 is glowing, and he reasons that she must have pressed it.

“So,” he mutters while they wait. “Was it true, what that Malachi guy said? If we sell our souls for good, we don’t get tortured?”

Ruby’s answering expression is rueful and wistful. “Yeah, you don’t even get on the rack. It’s a shame, too. I used to love hearing those innocent screams.”

Dean tries not to portray the horror he feels, choosing instead to shudder silently. The metal doors clang open, and Ruby steps inside, long fingers darting out to press three more buttons. Dean gets in after her somewhat reluctantly. 

“Why does your king want me? I didn’t even know Hell _had_ a king.”

Ruby looks at him as if he’d said that he didn’t know America had a president. “Of course we have a King! Well, half the time we have a Queen, and once or twice we’ve had dual rulerships, but right now it’s a King. What, you think we’re animals? No leader to keep us in line?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but he can tell that Ruby knows that’s exactly what he thought.

“Why does he want me?” Dean asks, and he can feel some of the fog clearing from his mind. He feels more like himself now, more like the bitter sarcastic asshole who gets drunk instead of feeling. All at once, being in an elevator with a demon on the way to see the demon king seems like a bad idea.

“Because you have some meaning to him,” Ruby says with a shrug, and the elevator pings. The doors roll back to reveal another blank hallway, barren but for the three dark wooden doors that line it. Two people are outside, and they step in cautiously.

“Should we get another elevator?” the first asks politely, his accent indicating a Scottish background. He fusses with the cuffs of his suit and doesn’t even look at Dean. Dean can’t find it within himself to be offended; he’s too busy slowly realizing just how much shit he’s in.

“No, it’s fine,” Ruby tells him with a dismissive wave of her hand. The man nods and presses the button for floor -1. The woman with him grins savagely at Dean and toys with a ringlet of her fiery hair, teeth calling to mind every time Dean sat on Bobby’s couch and watched Shark Week. He tries not to look scared.

“Abby, don’t scare him. Our King has something to do with him,” Ruby warns, and the woman backs off. She still growls slightly, and Dean is left with the impression that she doesn’t have much love for their ruler. 

“Really?” the man inquires, peering at Dean curiously. All at once, Dean is struck with the realization that he’s in hell. He was killed and he’s in hell, and he’s riding an elevator with three demons because the fucking King of Hell wants to meet him for some completely unfathomable reason. And he can’t even run.

“Apparently,” Dean mutters, looking anywhere but at his three companions. He’s too busy trying not to panic. He thinks he understands Sarah’s feelings.

“Interesting,” the man muses, and holds out a hand. Dean shakes it distractedly, but the other man doesn’t seem to care. “I’m Crowley, and this is Abaddon. She’s a Knight of Hell and I’m King of the Crossroads.”

“Dean,” Dean mutters. Crowley makes a noncommittal sound and the conversation stops. The elevator makes another shrill noise and the doors whoosh open, letting Crowley and Abaddon out on their floor. Ruby watches them go with a mixture of amusement and envy. Dean doesn’t want to ask.

He’s dead. He’s dead and he’s in hell and somehow, he isn’t being skinned alive yet. There are demons all over the place, and not one of them has tried to kill him yet. He’s had civil conversations, casual ones, with demons. High-ranking demons. And he’s in hell.

Dean thinks he might be going crazy.

Ruby hums along to the elevator music until the machine finally lets them out at their floor. Then she’s off, glancing at the watch that rings her thin wrist, frowning. Dean hurries to keep up as she saunters down a mind-blowingly long hallway, past countless doors. Hell must be huge, to accommodate all these rooms.

“Alright, this is it,” Ruby announces, stopping at an unassuming door and turning to glare at Dean, hands on her hips. “When you go in there, be respectful. He could kill you by thinking about it, and though I doubt he will, it doesn’t mean he won’t. Try not to make a fool of yourself.”

And then she’s twisting the shiny metal doorknob and pushing him through, and nearly slamming the door behind him. Dean stumbles but manages to right himself before face-planting onto the plush red carpet. He can hear the muffled sounds of someone talking, but they’re too far away to make anything out.

Dean straightens up and takes stock of his surroundings. He’s in a well-furnished office, it looks like, but more like a cozy library than a corporate place. There are rows of bookshelves on every wall, and they’re completely stocked with books of all sizes, everything from encyclopedias to battered paperbacks. There are a few armchairs scattered about the spacious area, some with books open on them and one with a blanket bunched up on it. The carpet is thick and luxurious and obviously expensive. The heavy curtains over the windows match it, and the only light comes from an antique lamp on the cherry-wood desk. It’s a space for someone with more money than free time, he thinks. 

The voice is coming from a small bathroom off to the side. Dean stays near the door, but he can see the bright florescent pouring from the open doorway. There’s the sound of a microwave going off, and he decides that he was wrong about the bathroom assumption. A few footsteps later, Dean is about to be face to face with the King of Hell.

The King stops in his tracks, eyes flitting over Dean with mild panic which quickly fades into excitement. An expensive cell phone falls from its perch between his ear and shoulder, and he drops the plate of pizza rolls he’d been heating up.

Dean refuses to believe it, but that doesn’t stop him from shouting the name on his tongue.

_“Sam?”_

XXXXX

Sam stares back with equal surprise, but then his face is lit up with pure joy, glowing and happy and everything it wasn’t in life. He crouches and fumbles on the floor for his dropped phone. A short “Call you back, Lilith,” finishes the conversation, and Sam hangs up. He’s across the room in an instant, stopping just short of Dean’s personal space. Sam looks like he’s waiting for something.

The first thing Dean says is “What the fuck.”

The second is also “What the fuck.”

And so is the third.

Sam reaches out like he wants to put a hand on Dean’s shoulder but doesn’t dare. Dean doesn’t flinch away, but he doesn’t lean in either, and a fleeting looks of grief crosses Sam’s face. Dean scrutinizes that face in detail, trying to be absolutely positive that this is, in fact, his little brother. He has the same unruly hair that flips outwards at the ends, the same chipped tooth, the same weird blue-brown eyes.

“Sammy,” he breathes, and lunges forward to catch Sam in a hug. Sam gets all the air knocked out of his lungs, but Dean doesn’t care, because his brother is here next to him and they’re both going to be okay, even if they are in Hell, but it doesn’t matter because they’re okay, and they will be for the foreseeable future.

“Careful, watch the rubs,” Sam groans, and Dean lets him go. They take a step back each, and Dean can see happy tears shimmering in Sam’s eyes. The ones in Dean’s eyes have already spilled over.

“You’re alive,” Dean murmurs, aware that he’s staring but unable to stop. If he takes his eyes away, if he so much as blinks, Sam will be gone. He’s sure of it. “Well, dead, but you’re here.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Doing pretty well, actually.”

Dean barks out a laugh, because there’s nothing else to do. Then his brain kicks in and he remembers why he’s in this fancy, upper-class room in the first place. “What the hell, Sammy?”

“I believe so, yes,” Sam jokes, but stops at the murderous glare Dean gives him. He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, and all at once he seems tired, young, and lonely. Dean can feel his steadily mending heart quiver. 

“What are you doing here, Sam?” Dean asks, voice deadly quiet.

Sam doesn’t meet his gaze. “Ruling, it looks like.”

Dean feels like the rug has been swept out from under him. “Ruling?”

“Yeah. Apparently, the yellow-eyed demon—Azazel was his name—had given me and the other kids demon blood so we would be able to lead his army. But when they all died, and I was the only one left, and he died, the plans fell through. So when I died again, they had this insanely powerful human soul that had been basically bred to be a leader, and nothing to do with me. So I sat around and twiddled my thumbs for a while, and then their old King died. So they gave me the job.”

And the other shoe drops.

“You had demon blood?” Dean repeats, trying to fixate on one revelation at a time.

Sam nods like it isn’t a big deal. “My whole life. When I was six months old, Azazel broke into my nursery and bled into my mouth. Mom walked in on him, so he killed her.”

“Mom,” Dean breathes. “She’s not…?”

Sam shakes his head and looks stricken. “No! No, she’s fine in Heaven. I’ve actually sent her a few letters, and she mails me back, using this weird portal thing that I decided not to question. Dad’s with her.”

Dean can feel a smile threatening to break out, but he doesn’t let it. One piece of good news isn’t enough to change what’s happening. “What did you do, until their last King died?”

“Paperwork, mostly,” Sam replies, fiddling with a letter opener. The sharp silver edge doesn’t cut his finger when he runs it along the shining metal, but Dean has no doubt that it’s honed to a razor-like perfection anyway. “They couldn’t torture me, because I was too strong. They didn’t even try.”

“So you were Hell’s accountant?” Dean says, caught halfway between disbelief and exasperation.

A small smile wears around the edges of Sam’s lips. “Pretty much.”

Dean sighs heavily and collapses into one of the armchairs. Sam, still smiling, follows suit and sits in the one opposite him. Dean stares pointedly at the floor for a few minutes before wetting his lips. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can make a sound, Sam’s cell phone buzzes.

“Hold that thought,” Sam says apologetically, answering. “Lilith, I said I would call back. I don’t care if he’s trying to—oh. Then stop him. Tell him that it’s a direct order.” Sam pauses, looking annoyed for a full fifteen seconds before his face falls further into anger and irritation. “Put him on the line.”

“Work troubles?” Dean asks.

Sam covers the phone with a hand and says, “A minor rebellion. It’s been brewing since I took power, but they’re just now acting. One of my directors is trying to take care of it.”

Dean nods in understanding, but he really doesn’t know what’s going on. 

“Alastair. Listen to me. Stop this now,” Sam growls, and Dean nearly feels fear. He’s never heard Sam like that before, or seen him with that enraged snarl on his face, eyes glinting and hard as flint. “I don’t care if you don’t want a human on the throne. I’m already here, and I will take you out if I have to.”

“Jesus,” Dean whispers, and Sam turns to him with an embarrassed shrug. In that split second he’s focused on his brother, Sam’s face is Sam again. But as soon as he looks away, he becomes the feral thing that growls into the phone.

“Give Lilith the phone, Alastair,” Sam orders, and his face goes back to normal.

“Lilith. Kill him,” he says simply, and hangs up.

Dean stares in horror. “You just ordered a kill?”

Sam shrugs, but the look in his eyes is haunted. “He’s been causing trouble for millennia. Half the things in _Sympathy for the Devil_ were his fault, and he wasn’t even ordered to do them. He was also the head torturer. He’s needed to be dealt with for a long time.”

“But you still ordered a kill on somebody. That’s not the Sam I knew,” Dean mumbles, not really caring that Sam likely won’t hear him.

But he does. “Dean, of course I’m not the same. I’ve been in Hell for sixty years, and I’ve been trying to keep it under control for about half of that. I’m a little different.”

“What do you mean, sixty years? It was only six months,” Dean protests.

Sam shakes his head. “Time passes differently down here. It’s slower.”

“I have a lot to learn about this goddamn place, don’t I?” Dean grumbles.

Sam grins at him, perfectly content with the way things are. “Yep. But I’ll teach you, and I have my friends to help. Now come on, and I’ll introduce you to them. There’s this one angel that visits sometimes to check on things using that portal I mentioned, and I think you and him would get along…”

So Sam put his arm around Dean’s shoulder and led him down the hall. Dean, still shocked beyond words and running on adrenaline alone, went with him. And they walked, the King of Hell and his brother.


End file.
